The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  “It might be well, sir, to go to London,” Vincent said, at his most forbidding. “I understand there are printers there who will provide that sort of thing at cost, and then give you a royalty should you permit them to reproduce it. I’m an honest man, sir, and I do not print offensive matter. Good day to you!” With a final sniff of disapproval, Vincent returned to his presses.

  Dr. Doyle considered what he had learned. The “po-faced chap from Christ Church” must have been Ingram. The offensive pamphlet originated at Christ Church, but Ingram certainly did not write it. In all of this, Ingram had acted as an intermediary, a go-between … but between whom and whom?

  Dr. Doyle glanced at his watch and wondered how to proceed. Should he wait for the two undergraduates, or should he go down the lane and try to find Mr. Dodgson to report what he had learned?

  The sonorous tones of Great Tom were tolling eleven. Lord Nevil Farlow clattered down the stairs and out into the lane, followed by his faithful shadow, Minnie Chatsworth. Dr. Doyle had been standing in the doorway of the printing shop, considering his options, and now started toward Christ Church.

  “Watch where you are going!” Farlow thrust Dr. Doyle out of his way with one powerful arm and continued down High Street toward St. Aldgates without a backward glance. Chatsworth followed his leader down the street. From the whiff that he got, Dr. Doyle realized that both young men had been sampling the stock at the club bar.

  What shall I do next? Dr. Doyle wondered. I’ve found the man who printed the verses. I’ve found out what happened to the college wine. I still have no idea who killed Ingram or why. Should I try the pawnshops next or.… He watched the two young men wander down the street back toward the walls of Christ Church.

  Dr. Doyle thought it over then decided to leave the pawnshops to Inspector Truscott and his men. They would know which of Oxford’s pawnbrokers was most likely to be a receiver of stolen goods, and which ones would be most likely to grass on a customer, particularly if said customer had just turned up dead under suspicious circumstances.

  “However,” Dr. Doyle said to himself, as he started after Farlow and Chatsworth, “these two young man have been following me all morning. They must know about the print shop downstairs from their club. For all I know, they may even have been the undergraduates under Ingram’s care. I shall have to see where they are going.”

  Dr. Doyle fumbled for his collar and adjusted it as he hurried after Farlow and Chatsworth. They ducked through Peckwater and out into Tom Quad then skirted the quad and headed for the mews. Dr. Doyle trotted after them.

  He caught sight of Touie and Mr. Dodgson as he continued across the quad and waved at them as they entered the Hall.

  “Picnic in the Meadows!” Touie shouted, as her husband dashed past, hot on the heels of the two young men, who had vanished through the gap between the mortuary and the mews.

  “I’ve lost them!” Dr. Doyle fumed, as he found himself back in the lane where Ingram’s body had been so unceremoniously dumped the evening before.

  He looked about. Aha! There was a flash of a black gown in the gap between two buildings. Dr. Doyle hurried through the noisome alley and found himself in another street of a sort far removed from the commercial bustle of the High or the tree-lined quiet of St. Giles. This was a slum, with no mincing of words. Careworn women stood in the doorways of tumbledown houses, watching their grubby offspring at play. A few men with weathered features and toothless grins were enjoying the spring sunshine in their golden years, while a trio of tough-looking characters lounged in front of a tavern.

  Dr. Doyle was no stranger to the seedier parts of Portsmouth; but this was not his home, and he would have to go carefully here. He looked about him, trying to match the truculence of the loungers with an equally fierce stare of his own.

  At the end of the street was a large structure with a swinging sign that announced that it was the Oxford Gentleman’s Athletic Club. Dr. Doyle looked up and down the street. Ingram’s lodgings were at one end of the passageway, the Oxford Gentleman’s Athletic Club marked the other, with the greensward of Christ Church Meadows just visible in the gap between the houses behind the buildings.

  Very well, Dr. Doyle thought. Since our young gentlemen are not in the tavern, and it is highly unlikely that they would be visiting any of these estimable women, I will proceed on the assumption that they have gone to the Oxford Gentleman’s Athletic Club. I will, therefore, follow them and find out why they have chosen to follow me!

  Chapter 15

  The Oxford Gentleman’s Athletic Club stood at the intersection of three lanes that converged into the one cobbled street that led eventually to the Broad Walk and Christ Church Meadows, the well-kept swath of grass between the college and the river. The building had once been a barn, and the fragrance of its previous inhabitants still hung over it like a visible miasma. There did not seem to be much business at this hour of the morning. Presumably those young men who wished to indulge in physical activities were out of doors on such a fine spring day. A large, shaven-headed individual stood beside the door under the sign, observing the passing scene. Dr. Doyle straightened his collar, smoothed back his hair, replaced the recently purchased cloth cap with his deerstalker, and stepped forward with an imbecilic grin plastered over his face.

  “Good morning!” He nodded to the doorkeeper. He hoped he looked like one of the idle fellows he had seen ogling young women on the esplanade in Brighton or dancing attendance on elderly relatives in Southsea.

  The doorkeeper grunted something that might have been a greeting. Dr. Doyle grinned cheerfully at him.

  “Is this the Oxford Gentleman’s Athletic Club?” he asked, assuming the affected drawl of the London loafer.

  “Yer see it is.” The doorkeeper jerked a thumb at the sign.

  Dr. Doyle nodded. “Of course it is. The chap at the White Hart sent me over. Said a chap could get a good workout here, what?”

  “Wot chap?” the doorkeeper asked suspiciously.

  “The name escapes me at the moment; but there was a chap at the bar, and I said I wished I could find a bit of action, don’t y’know, and he said to come here. I do hope I’m not too early. Nearly dawn, ain’t it?” Dr. Doyle tried to look as if he rarely got out of bed until noon and jingled the coins in his pocket meaningfully.

  The doorkeeper assessed the stranger. Good clothes but not expensive; odd cap he was wearing; but he was staying at the White Hart; and if the barman at the White Hart had sent him, he couldn’t be a copper. Besides, the man had a half crown in his hand, ready to slip into a waiting palm.

  “Step in,” the doorkeeper said, moving aside. “If the sergeant-major has time for yer, yer might be able to put on the gloves wif’ ’im.”

  Dr. Doyle nodded graciously and stepped into the Oxford Gentleman’s Athletic Club.

  The door led to a small anteroom, where sporting prints covered the walls and posters announcing boxing matches and horse races filled whatever space was left. The anteroom, in turn, led to the large, open space that had once held stalls for horses. The aroma still clung to the place, augmented by the smells of male sweat, cheap tobacco, and liniment. Here, obviously, was where the main business of the Oxford Gentleman’s Athletic Club took place, i.e., the preparation of young men for the rigors of London life.

  Here a young man could learn the fine art of fisticuffs and the finer art of fencing. Hooks on the bare wooden walls held boxing gloves and fencing foils, masks, and chest protectors. Mats covered the wooden floorboards, and a boxing ring had been set up in the middle of the room, with ropes on stanchions marking the space demanded by the rules laid down by the Marquis of Queensbery. Dr. Doyle looked about for his missing undergraduates and frowned as he heard loud voices coming from the farthest corner of the room, where a cubicle had been walled off to make a private office, presumably for the proprietor of the Oxford Gentleman’s Athletic Club.

  Whatever was going on in the office was noisy, but Dr. Doyle could not make out the word
s. Only the emotion came through, and that was clear enough. Someone was very, very angry!

  The two undergraduates emerged from the office followed by the sergeant-major himself, a man of middle height, balding, with a mighty military mustache and steel gray side-whiskers.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he repeated to the two young men who had bullied their way into his office.

  “Don’t come the old soldier with me!” Nevil Farlow shouted furiously. “I’ve just been talking with Burlingame of Merton. He says his scout tried the same trick on him that Ingram tried on me! Trying to get inside information about Eights Week!”

  “And why would I care about that?”

  “Because you’ve been taking the bets on Eights Week for as long as you’ve been set up here,” Chatsworth said calmly. “My brothers both told me that if I wanted to do any wagering, I should place my bets with you because at least you ran an honest shop.”

  “And I do,” the sergeant-major blustered. “Now run along, lads. Who’s this?” He turned on Dr. Doyle with a sudden frown. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who let you in? I don’t know you, do I?”

  Dr. Doyle rocked back and forth on his heels, grinning fatuously. “Just visitin’, don’t y’know? Thought I might take a turn with the old gloves, what?”

  “You were following me!” Farlow interrupted him. “You were in the High, and you were in the Covered Market …”

  “I beg your pardon!” Dr. Doyle lost the fatuous look and the fashionable drawl and reverted to his customary Edinburgh burr. “It is you who were following me, sir. You were in the mews this morning, and you have no business in the Covered Market that I know of.”

  “You don’t know anything about my business,” the younger man sneered. “But I know yours. You’re that interfering Scotchman …”

  “Scotsman,” Dr. Doyle corrected him automatically.

  “I say! Aren’t you the chap who found old Ingram in the lane? I saw you from my rooms.” Chatsworth tried to interpose himself between his argumentative friend and the doctor. “I’m Chatsworth, Chatsworth Minim. This is Lord Nevil Farlow.”

  “How do you do?” Dr. Doyle found his hand being pumped by the enthusiastic undergraduate, whose friend extended two fingers languidly.

  “We’re awfully sorry about the mix-up,” Chatsworth babbled, moving Dr. Doyle away from the sergeant-major and toward the exit door. “I mean to say, who’s following who, what?”

  Dr. Doyle pulled away from the well-meaning young man. “While I have the two of you here, I’d like a word with you.” He pulled out the much-folded paper. “Did one of you write this piece of trash?”

  “How dare you question me, you miserable cur?” Farlow snarled. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  Dr. Doyle’s temper was rising, but he kept his voice level as he replied, “I don’t care who you are, sir. You are behaving like an arrogant puppy who is hiding behind a student’s gown and is using his scholarship to terrify a young woman into leaving her college.”

  “What!” Chatsworth regarded his friend with sorrow. “Nev, I told you that wouldn’t do.” He turned back to Dr. Doyle. “It was all a rag, you know. A joke. One writes them, you know.”

  “Then you admit that you are the author of that … that rubbish?” Dr. Doyle’s temper began to rise.

  “That is no business of yours, sir! You are offensive! Let me go!” Farlow drew back his fist, only to find it caught in the firm grip of Sergeant-Major Howard.

  “There’s no fighting in this establishment unless I say so,” he decreed.

  “Then bring out your gloves, Sergeant-Major, and we’ll see if this Scotch upstart can fight as well as he can talk.” Farlow was already pulling off his gown and unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  “Nev, you can’t fight him! He’s a doctor!” Chatsworth wailed.

  “Are you telling me that I am not worthy of bloodying the nose of this arrogant youngster?” Dr. Doyle’s temper was truly gone now. He removed his own jacket and opened his collar again. If young Farlow wanted a thrashing, he was going to get one!

  The sergeant-major had removed two sets of padded mitts from the hooks on the walls. Now he held them out to the combatants.

  “It’s the gloves or the door, and I’ll not have you here again if you refuse. We fight fair here, sir.”

  Dr. Doyle nodded as the doorkeeper laced him into the mitts and assisted him into the ring. Chatsworth acted as second for his friend, helping him up onto the raised platform and tying his mitts securely. Dr. Doyle faced his opponent in the ring, while the sergeant-major ponderously clambered through the ropes and stood between them.

  “I will act as referee,” the sergeant-major decided. “All this is totally irregular; but if you will have it so, Lord Farlow, you will abide by the rules. No gouging, no punching on the neck, no blows below the belt. First blood wins.”

  Farlow advanced fiercely, secure in the knowledge that he was younger and taller than his opponent. Dr. Doyle, on the other hand, sidestepped Farlow’s wild swing and landed a quick jab to the younger man’s ribs. Farlow aimed again and was sidestepped again. Dr. Doyle aimed at his midsection, while Farlow was out for blood and a knockout punch that would destroy his opponent.

  The fight continued. Farlow landed a glancing blow on Dr. Doyle’s cheek that scraped some skin off but did not deter his opponent. Dr. Doyle watched carefully, then lashed out, a right and a left, connecting with Farlow’s jaw. The undergraduate sagged, and the sergeant-major held up Dr. Doyle’s hand.

  “I declare a winner!” The sergeant-major unlaced the gloves, while Chatsworth climbed into the ring to revive his friend with smelling salts and a wet towel provided by the burly doorkeeper.

  Dr. Doyle knelt down beside the young man, all animosity forgotten. “He’ll be all right,” he announced. “He’s only stunned. I didn’t hit him all that hard, you know. An ice pack and a day’s rest will do wonders for him.”

  Chatsworth shook his head ruefully. “He won’t do it,” he said. “We’re supposed to be down at the river. Eights practice,” he added, as Farlow groaned and lifted his head to glare at Dr. Doyle.

  “Take him back to his rooms,” Dr. Doyle suggested.

  “And don’t you come ’round again until you’re in a better temper,” the sergeant-major added.

  Farlow struggled to his knees, then let Chatsworth help him to his feet. “I could have taken you bare-knuckled,” he mumbled.

  “Perhaps,” Dr. Doyle said, accepting his waistcoat and collar from the hands of the admiring doorkeeper. “But we shall never know that, shall we? Good morning, Lord Farlow.”

  “I haven’t told you a thing!” Farlow spat out. “And you have no proof that I did anything! Stop fussing, Minnie! You’re worse than my mother!”

  He shook off his faithful follower and strode out the door, with Chatsworth trailing after him. The sergeant-major watched them leave with a grim look on his face.

  “That there is a young man I’d like to have had the training of,” the sergeant-major declared. “Not that I’d have had the chance, of course. I knew his father.”

  “He’s not half bad,” Dr. Doyle admitted, feeling his jaw, “but he’s got no discipline.”

  “Unlike you, sir,” the sergeant-major said, matching Dr. Doyle’s rueful grin. “You’ve trained, I believe.”

  Dr. Doyle shrugged himself back into his coat. “I’ve done some boxing,” he said. He stroked his mustache back into place and considered himself properly dressed. “I wanted to have a word with you in any case,” he said.

  “With me?” The sergeant-major looked astonished.

  “About the late and unlamented James Ingram,” Dr. Doyle said. “You must have known him.”

  “Oh? And what makes you think that?”

  “Ingram’s lodgings are at the end of the street. He had several betting slips in his rooms as well as pawnbrokers’ tickets. Young Farlow intimated that you might have been involved in some scheme to fix the odds of
the boat races, and for that you would have needed the assistance of servants inside the various competing colleges. What better way to do that than to place your own people in such posts, especially when there were so many vacancies after the hard winter?”

  Sergeant-Major Howard led Dr. Doyle back to his tiny office, where he took his own chair and lit up a cigar.

  “Why should I talk to you, Dr. Whoever-you-are …?”

  “Doyle. My name is Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  “As you say, sir. Why should I talk to you at all?”

  “Because if you wanted to come forward, Sergeant-Major, you would have done so last night. I don’t have to tell the police anything about Ingram that they don’t already know. In fact, I strongly suspect that Inspector Truscott will be paying you a visit quite shortly. He’s no fool, and he knows far more than I do about the ins and outs of the sporting crowd here in Oxford. If I could find you out, it won’t take him much longer to get around to you.”

  The sergeant-major stroked his mustache and frowned. “What do you want to know?”

  “How well did you know Ingram?”

  “I knew him as well as anyone, which is to say, not at all. The gentlemen in London sent a few chaps down that they thought would be able to suss out information as to the fitness of the rowing teams,” the sergeant-major said dryly.

  “Nothing illegal about that,” Dr. Doyle said, after a moment’s thought. “Of course, there are those who would say it is not ethical, but there’s no law against having inside info, as they say in racing circles. And so Ingram was taken on at Christ Church, having been provided with a reference from the gentleman in London.”

  “But they didn’t tell me he was a light-fingered rogue who couldn’t keep a civil tongue in his head,” the sergeant-major sputtered. “I don’t know how he got his position in London, or how he expected to keep this one the way he went on, dropping hints of what he’d seen and heard in grand houses and clubs! No one in good service ever does that, not even when he’s a drop taken!”